"No Life 'Til Leather"

Trapped Under Ice

"..."

"... Ya think if I'm quiet enough, maybe I could...?"

Buzz...

The silent hallways of Babel, the bowels of Rhodes Island, slithered on and on, churning at corners and flopping into intersections. Quiet was the night, and lonely was its wake. Footsteps rang in the hollow ceiling pipes, carrying on and on through the whole superstructure. Someone was making the grueling wander back home.

"... No? Not a chance?"

Anton sneaked from door to door, crossed paths from corner to corner. His attentive ears kept perking at the slightest of sounds, sharpened enough through the years to pick out even the most miniscule of changes in air frequencies. Each blurt of electrical spark-vomit that erupted across the landship couldn't go unnoticed. His brightly green Feline eyes flicking across the hallway were everything one would see in the hollow darkness, were they to stick their head out of their room and catch Mr Newmaker in the act.

A lazily buzzing blade followed his flimsy whims, crossing a floating path through the air behind. Its eye-gem, half lidded, painted a clear, non-verbal picture of the spirit's unamused nature.

"... Yer such a downer, ya know? Twisting ya gob off, ya don't even know if she's sleeping or nah. My bet, she's snoozin' at the desk. Freezin' her ass off, snoozin' softly at the desk." Anton fell to the floor after a particularly daring jump from one corridor to the other. "Ow."

"..." Uri buzzed pitifully, lending a death-cold iron gauntlet or two to pick the disaster back into pieces. Anton let himself be dragged upright, his ears wiggling anxiously.

"... What if she's not? What if she's not, Uri? What if she's waitin' for me at the door, one hand on the handle, another on a whip...? Or- or a knife? Ya think she's gonna dissect me piece by piece again?"

He gripped the blade's edges tight, mushing his fear fueled eyes against the crimson gem's softening glare. Uri murmured a soft buzz, letting the gauntlets lovingly pat the scaredy cat's brain back into place. The sound must've lulled him somewhat into a fleeting sense of security, and Anton crossed his arms in thinking.

"... Yeah... Yeah, that is true, she doesn't really seem the killing kind anymore, I don't think so... I don't suppose she's hurt me even once these past few decades, ah?"

Uri murmured in agreement, gently sieving his metal fingers through Anton's messy hair to wrangle it back into shape.

"Ya think I've grown on her, finally? I mean, about damn time, no? How long does it take to sweet-talk your way under a nice lady's wings, usually? Five hundred years? Two thousand? I got seven 'kay and counting. Or, well." He snickered quietly, bursting with juvenile excitement at the prospect. "... Maybe not counting anymore, ah...?"

Uri's metal carapace shook up and down, swayed by something resembling a heavily distorted and very jovial chuckle. He nabbed the tip of Anton's scruff and hastily shook him around, drowning in shrilly giggles from the kitty-cat's throat.

"Y-Yeah, I know! I know, I k-know, fuck's sake... Uri, y-... Yer gonna snap me neck again! A-Ah, ya fuckwit!" He squirmed, giggled, snickered, wringed his arms around the cold, unfeeling fingers. "H-Hehe, you're makin' me feel funny..."

Uri calmly buzzed something back.

"Digging into my spinal cord...?" Anton gleefully gazed upon the sword, eyes glossed over with a dreamy hue. "... Sounds fun..."

And Uri buzzed again, then let him flop back onto the floor.

"Oof." Anton rubbed his neck. "Rough. Tough love?"